


Vemödalen

by arabybizarre, OBFrankenfics



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: 23 emotions people feel but can't explain, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, First Meetings, OBFrankenfics, Photography, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabybizarre/pseuds/arabybizarre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OBFrankenfics/pseuds/OBFrankenfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Delphine is a photography student, and Cosima is her favorite subject (an affinity that would seem more fitting if only Cosima weren’t a complete stranger).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vemödalen

_**Vemödalen** : The frustration of photographing something amazing when thousands of identical photos already exist._

* * *

 

By ten pm Thursday night, the gallery is nearly empty. A few of her closest, most inebriated friends mill about the room, laughing drunkenly at each other to stave off boredom. Their voices echo through the tiny room, filling the eaves with flippant conversation. Jaw tightening, Delphine clutches her plastic cup of Chablis tighter, turning towards the wall.

Her eyes burn. She hadn’t expected the other students to be lined up out the door, but she’d expected at least a mild reception. It wasn’t the most prestigious gallery in the area—on the contrary, it could barely be considered a _gallery_ at all _._ At one time, it had been a café, sandwiched between an all-night laundromat and a Chinese takeout restaurant. Five years back it had been bought by the University’s Fine Arts Department and repurposed to showcase the art of up-and-coming seniors. Delphine had been elated when her advisor had chosen her work for the final exhibition of the year. She’d spent weeks preparing—not just choosing the right photographs to display; but choosing the right outfit; the right topics of conversation, should someone ask.

As it turns out, all of her stress had been in vain. A few of her peers had shown up to offer their support, but aside from her friends, most had opted to head to the bar down the street instead.

_“It’s one of the last Thirsty Thursdays of the semester,”_ her friend Valerie had offered consolingly, half lit off her own bottle of wine. _“Don’t take it personally.”_

It’s hard not to though. Her own parents had spent so much time deriding her field of study, belittling photography as a lesser art form.

_“It’s not as difficult as it used to be, Delphine. Everyone thinks themselves a photographer. Even your grandmother does, since we bought her an iPhone.”_

What her mother could not understand, however, as she’d patronized Delphine’s passion, was that her reasons for photography being an obsolete art form were the very same reasons why Delphine felt the need to pursue it in the first place: anybody could do it, yes; but only a few could be great at it.

Taking a long sip of her drink, Delphine narrows her eyes, scrutinizing her own photos as she has done countless times before. To see them now, hanging upon the gallery wall, illuminated by those bright yellow lights, adds a certain level of gravitas that denudes them completely, leaving every flaw of her craft on display.

The subject matter holds too little significance, she realizes. For months she’d been candidly taking photos of other students in and around campus—hustling to and from buildings, falling asleep in the library, catching a few extra moments of quiet study time with their morning coffees. Her attempt had been to accurately capture the pressures of a failing academic system.

All the faces hanging upon the wall look tired. Some of them disgruntled, or even on the verge of emotional collapse. As a whole, she could see now that they did not all fit together. The message they were sending was not a tale of caution or of reproach. It was simply exhausting.

She has to look away, suddenly embarrassed by her efforts. Her professors had commended her on this collection, but had she made a lasting impression? Would they tell their colleagues of her work?

Glancing away, her eyes land on a row of portraits along the far wall. Without thinking, she swiftly crosses the floor, sighing in relief as her gaze traces that familiar smirk.

Up to this point in her career, she’d followed two rules. She never photographed people that she knew intimately well—including friends, family, or lovers—and she never photographed the same subject more than once. Strangers were kinder to her, to her lens, their lives more fleeting and malleable. The less she knew someone, the easier it was to objectify or impose a story on them. She sometimes felt cold for thinking this way, but knew it was part of her job. The most personal work was always produced through harsh and impersonal means.

But here was this girl—this _woman_ , really, for she couldn’t have been any younger than Delphine herself—mounted upon the wall on three different occasions. She smiles slightly over the rim of her glass. Her face was simply too expressive to ignore. Too soft, too bright, too sure. Even on her bad days she’d drawn the photographer’s lens with an almost affronting ease.

From a distance, Delphine had met her nearly two dozen times, though they’d never exchanged words. Through the eye of the camera they had strolled the same paths in the park, side-by-side; they’d shared coffees and memories and anxieties.

“Hey, Delphine!”

From a distance, she’d allowed this woman a deeper glimpse into her life than she’d allowed even those who’d stood beside her tonight. The imagined intimacy had been thrilling, dangerous. It had felt vulnerable—more so than anything that now lined the gallery’s walls.

“Delphine—” She startles when Valerie grabs her arm. The other girl laughs. “Sorry.”

“What is it?”

“Are you going to be much longer here? The rest of us were thinking of hitting the bar.”

Delphine frowns. “The gallery doesn’t close until eleven.”

“You have to stay the whole time?” Valerie glances around, brow furrowed, oblivious to her offense. “No one else is here. It’s probably okay if you leave.”

“I shouldn’t,” she answers, sighing. She averts her eyes, landing on the photos of her mystery subject.

“Doctor Adams isn’t going to lecture you if—”

“Valerie,” she interjects, exasperated. Taking a breath, she tells her, more calmly, “If you guys want to go—go. I’ll meet you later.”

After a moment, Valerie nods reluctantly. “If you say so.”

It’s a relief to see them leave. Rather, she hears the door open behind her. By the time they exit, her back is to them. She’s looking at the nameless woman again.

Delphine has many regrets about this night, about the photos she’d chosen. Her biggest is that she’d ever hung these. She realizes now that these do not belong to anybody but her—they were not _taken for_ anybody but her. They are not artistic. They are not a technical wonder. But she looks at them, and she feels somehow less lonely.

The others though—Doctor Adams, and Valerie, and all of her friends—they would look at these photos, at this woman, and all they could possibly see is what they would see in every other face in the gallery.

“Merde.” Before she can even question herself, she is tearing those three photos from the wall. It’s the right thing, she knows. This woman is not like all the others. She does not belong here.

This woman belongs at home, tucked away in Delphine’s secret drawer, where she hides letters unsent; ticket stubs from dates that had once meant something more; and at the bottom, several photographs of this enticing stranger—photographs that she is ashamed to look at most days, but whose presence make her feel oddly serene.

Downing the remainder of her wine, she crosses the room and begins stuffing the photos in the purse she stashed beneath the refreshment table. She glances back at the empty space on the wall where they had been moments before. Shaking her head, she turns away, pulling her bag atop the table.

Now that she’s alone, she has the sudden urge to call it a night, in spite of what she told Valerie. She has no desire to rejoin her friends, however. No desire to be around anybody at all. Debating a hasty retreat, she pours out the last of the Chablis, and takes another sip.

Delphine feels so ashamed she can’t even look up when she hears the door open again. She assumes at first that one of her friends has returned, perhaps out of some sense of guilt or loyalty. However, a glance out of the corner of her eye proves otherwise.

She shuffles from foot-to-foot for a moment, feeling awkward and unsure, hoping this spectator doesn’t feel the need to engage her in conversation. How could she defend any of this now? She takes a sip of her wine, just trying to fill space.

“Excuse me.”

Her head snaps up when this stranger—this woman—calls to her, heart skipping just a whisper before her mind can even process the all-too-familiar glasses, the neatly pulled back dreadlocks and charming smile.

“Did you take these?”

Delphine looks at the woman pointing to the wall, then down into the purse beside her, where that same face is printed upon a hidden photograph. When she glances back up, her hesitation plain, the woman is smiling at her expectantly, her face gentle. All Delphine can do is nod.

The woman glances back to the photos and her smile broadens. “Wow.” The awe in her voice is so plain, so sincere, Delphine’s eyes sting. She bites her lip against it, feeling instant embarrassment. “These are, like… beautiful.” The woman balks suddenly, and begins to chuckle. “I mean—sorry.” She turns back to Delphine, a bit more sheepishly. “That probably sounds pretty lame. I’m not really well-versed in photographer jargon.”

Delphine chuckles, too—almost too loud in her nervousness, though the woman doesn’t seem to mind. “No,” she assures her, “that’s fine. That’s…” she blushes. “That’s a good compliment.”

“Good, good.” The woman is distracted—intrigued—by her photos. She meanders about the room, studying them with a naive meticulousness. In spite of her place in the room, Delphine feels as if she is the one on display, the one being stared at.

After several moments of silence, punctuated only by the woman’s sporadic mumbling, she wanders over to the refreshment table, nodding to herself with a strange sort of exuberance. Her eyes can’t seem to focus on anything at all, until finally, they focus on the photographer.

“Delphine, right?”

She’s caught mid-sip. “I’m—uh—oui. Yes,” she sputters without charm, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Delphine Cormier,” she tries again, a bit more confidently.

“Yeah,” the woman grins. “Your name was on the poster outside. I saw a couple on campus, too.”

“Yes,” Delphine agrees dumbly. Hadn’t she prepared for conversations like this? “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course,” the woman says happily. “I was just—I was walking home from the library—” Up close, Delphine is entranced by the way the woman’s hands move so effusively as she speaks. “I thought I would stop in. I’m glad I wasn’t too late.” She looks around, first at the emptiness of the room, then to Delphine’s bag on the table. “I’m not too late, right? I mean—I’m sorry, you were cleaning up—”

The photographer’s heart leaps when the woman appears to be backing up, glancing towards the door. “No, no,” she tells her, waving her hands. She sets her cup down on the table. “I’m here until eleven.” When the woman appears skeptical, she gestures towards the wine. “Please—would you like a drink? It’s free.”

After a beat, the woman readjusts the strap of her own bag over her shoulder, and nods. “Okay, uhm… yeah. Yeah—do you mind if I set my bag down?”

“Of course. Go ahead,” Delphine says, busying herself with pouring the woman a cup of wine. A moment later, she hands the woman her drink, smiling. “Here you are, uhm—”

“Cosima,” she says, taking the drink, grinning. “And thanks.”

“ _Cosima_ ,” Delphine repeats. It feels in her mouth as those photos had felt her hands when she’d hung them in the University’s darkroom. “I hope Cabernet is all right. I’m afraid it’s all that’s left.”

“Oh, yeah,” she chuckles. “I’m not picky.”

“Good,” Delphine chuckles with her.

After a sip, Cosima comments, “You must have had some turn out.”

“Oh, uh—why do you say that?”

The brunette gestures towards the refreshment table. “The snacks look like they were picked clean.”

Delphine blushes. That had been the work of her friends. She’d taken care of the second bottle of wine almost entirely on her own.

“It was okay,” she says.

“ _Okay_ ,” Cosima smiles. “How modest.” Delphine blushes again. “You go to the university?”

“Yes. I’m graduating in a couple weeks, actually.”

“Lucky you.”

“Are you also a student?”

“Yeah. No graduation in sight though. At this rate, it feels like I’ll never finish.”

“Oh… what’s your major?”

“Evo-Devo.” At Delphine’s oblivious look, she explains, “Evolutionary Developmental Biology. Really cool shit, actually. I kind of feel like I’m losing my mind over it at this point though.”

Delphine chuckles. “I’m sorry.”

“Nah. I like that.”

“You like crazy?”

Suddenly, an impish glint flashes in Cosima’s eyes. “I said I was losing my mind. I never said anything about crazy.”

“Good to know.”

They’re both trying to look cool, to look at anything but each other when their eyes meet accidentally. Delphine inhales quietly over the rim of her cup, while in the same breath, Cosima exhales over hers. For a moment, the gaze holds in defiance, before they both look away again.

After a moment of pregnant silence, Cosima glances up, squinting slightly. The blonde is instantly reminded of one of the photographs tucked into her purse—Cosima, squinting into the sunlight as she searches for something hidden in the trees.

“Hey,” she begins, “sorry if this is a stupid question, but… have we met before?” Delphine glances down at her bag again, heart beating a little faster. _Yes,_ she thinks, _yes, dozens of times._ “I’ve just got, like, this feeling. Like, I’ve definitely seen you before.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah. And I feel like… I don’t know. Like I had to have met you somewhere before. Maybe at a party or something?”

“Maybe…” Delphine says. Cosima continues to squint at her. She bites her lip. “I think we go to the same park, actually.”

“The park?”

“The one off campus.”

Cosima’s eyes light. “Yeah. I’m there all the time.”

“Three days a week.” Delphine’s cheeks burn the moment it escapes her mouth. “Usually…”

Cosima chuckles again. “Yeah. I always go on my lab days, between my evening classes.”

“Oh, okay. I go there to take pictures.”

“Really?” The brunette glances around, intrigued. In that moment, Delphine hesitates. She opens her mouth once, as if to explain, then stops herself suddenly. “What?”

She takes a chance then, because, why not? It _feels_ like pure chance that this strange, entrancing woman walked in here tonight—pure chance that they would meet at all. Without thinking, she takes a breath and pulls the photos from her purse.

Cosima takes them when offered, staring at them with a furrowed brow. When she finally glances back up at Delphine, the blonde is certain she must think she’s a little crazy.

“Sorry,” Delphine says. “Uhm… I don’t usually talk to my subjects, so…”

Cosima’s eyes widen slightly.  “Do you want me to, like… leave?”

“No,” Delphine corrects, a little too quickly. “No, I just…” She shakes her head, an explanation coming out in a rush. “It feels weird to be standing here talking to you when I have these pictures in my bag. And with you asking me if we’ve met—no,” she says. “Not really. But I see you all the time, and you’re one of my favorite people to photograph…” She allows the words to trail off, feeling instantly stupid. Cosima simply stares at her, brows high, eyes wide behind her glasses.

After a pause, she asks, “Me?”

“Yeah,” Delphine says matter-of-factly, slightly exasperated with her own foolishness. “You can keep them if you want,” she finishes, glancing down at her feet.

“Really?” The blonde nods, Cosima’s eyes remaining wide. After a moment, she smiles, reaching towards her own bag. “Hold on.” Delphine watches in curiosity. After a few seconds of searching, the brunette pulls out her phone, holding it in front of the photographer’s face. “Yeah, hold on.”

She snaps a picture. And then another.

“What are you doing?” Delphine chuckles, feeling shy.

“I’m returning the favor. Here—pretend you’re looking at something over there. Be moody.” Delphine can only laugh more, feeling nervous and oddly relieved. “Okay,” Cosima concludes, scrolling through the photos. She stops, thumb hovering over the screen, and smiles softly. Holding up the phone for Delphine to see, she says, “Like it?”

Truthfully, it’s a terrible photo. But Cosima is grinning, and she can’t help but grin, too. “It’s nice,” she nods.

“It is,” the brunette agrees. “Now, uhm… you gave me pictures, so I have to, like, send this to you, too.”

“Oh?”

Cosima glances up, somewhat sheepishly. “Can I get your number?”

It dawns on her then, a bit belatedly, that she hasn’t ruined this entire encounter. In fact, it’s been more successful than any she’d engaged in all night. Smiling, she takes the phone from Cosima’s hand, sending the photo herself.

“Don’t forget to save that,” she tells her.

With a disbelieving look, Cosima shakes her head. “I won’t.”


End file.
